Discoveries
by Westel
Summary: An after-holiday tale of the early days just before the first five-year mission, when Spock discovers something about himself and McCoy about the new science officer.


Discoveries

by Westel

"Come on, Spock! You might as well make the best of it. After all, it's not like we forced you into this." The doctor's voice was muffled as he rummaged in the kitchen storage closet.

Spock's eyebrows went flat-line and he busied himself helping his new captain bring in supplies from the make-shift sled, a contrivance of Kirk's to move what they needed from the shuttle to the cabin.

It was inconvenient that the shuttle had developed a malfunction in its impulse drive. What was to be a brief stop at this out-of-the-way place, dropping off the captain and the doctor, had suddenly become an overnight stay as a replacement shuttle could not be made available until the next afternoon. The delay would mean his having to skip a visit to the museum he planned for the morrow, as he must report to the _Enterprise_, along with the captain, before she departed space-dock tomorrow evening.

As he worked, his breath white puffs in the frigid air, he made a valiant effort to forget his present situation by analyzing the events of the past few weeks, weeks which marked a rite of passage for the Vulcan as he said goodbye to his old C.O. and began his relationship with the new.

Time brought change. If one waited long enough, even the slowest change eventually became evident. The last thirteen years of his life stretched out behind him now, like a comet's tail, and he saw the pattern that time had drawn. The lighter-hearted, smiling youth who found purpose and fulfillment in his work on a starship had matured, sobered, _hardened_, as he found himself striving more and more to be like the father from whom he was alienated – to become even more Vulcan than a full-blooded Vulcan.

It hadn't been so hard, this change. Pike was reserved, by-the-book and, by nature, reticent. As the Vulcan detached himself more and more from human responses, actions, emotions, the captain had accepted it, for whatever reason, making it easier for Spock as the other human crewmembers grew puzzled, then angry or ambivalent toward him. The initial hurt brought on by their response was pushed away; it was only an emotion, after all.

Eventually – through promotion, transfer, or death, all his old shipmates were gone. Only Number One and Pike had remained until, two years ago, the first officer was killed in a Klingon raid on an outlying Starbase. Captain Pike was never quite the same after that, growing moody and depressed. Spock wasn't surprised when he announced his acceptance of a promotion and resignation as captain of the _Enterprise_. Though no one had discussed it, he had not failed to notice the attachment ship's captain and first officer had for one another.

Friendship – it was difficult to fathom.

"Daydreaming, Mr. Spock?" The captain's low-pitched voice near his shoulder startled him back to reality.

The Vulcan bent to retrieve the parcels he had dropped and answered smoothly, "Vulcans do not 'daydream', Captain. They meditate." He walked into the darkening three-room structure with his burden, leaving Kirk staring after him.

ooOOoo

"So I flavoured it with a little beef-broth. How was I to know you'd take it so personally?" McCoy flung the ladle into the stewpot, flinging gravy over the heating unit and a little onto himself.

"I am not ungrateful for your culinary endeavors, Dr. McCoy. Nor do I hold you responsible for understanding Vulcan dietary requirements. This nutribar will serve my needs adequately."

McCoy sensed the Vulcan's good will under the bland coolness and flashed a half-grin, reaching with a finger to wipe a globule of stew from his shirt front. "Guess I'd better clean this up," he mumbled, gathering dirty utensils in a precarious pile and balancing them on a kitchen shelf.

"Let me clean them, Doctor, while you eat. Your stew will cool quickly, and as I understand it, humans prefer hot food to be – hot." Spock practically elbowed McCoy out of the room and began pouring water into the sink.

Kirk and McCoy ate in relative silence. The doctor could see that the captain had something on his mind and felt it was best to leave the man alone. McCoy leaned back in his chair, basking in the heat radiating from the fire – well, actually it radiated from the heating units in the walls and floor, but somehow I pleased his imagination better to think his comfort came solely from the burning logs. He had looked forward o this short R&R for some time now, before he took leave from the _Enterprise_ while Boyce filled in for him, and pleased that Kirk had agreed to take an over-nighter with him before returning to the ship. Seldom did personal plans coincide with ship's schedule and he had learned to grab any opportunity possible. So, it seemed had James Kirk, whom he had known for several years, and who had requested McCoy be reassigned as Chief Medical Officer aboard the _Enterprise_. How often does a starship captain get to slip away from his command, and at a home pot? Better not ask Spock – he could probably give them odds down to the fifth decimal.

_Spock_. He was a can of beans, if McCoy had ever seen one. Everybody seemed to avoid the man, or change their behaviour if he came into the room; even the most verbose lost the power to articulate in the Vulcan's presence. The one or two smart-mouths who had tried to back the science officer into a corner were soon picking themselves off the verbal floor, their ears burning with Spock's parries and knife-edged lunges.

But what was underneath that shell around the man, McCoy wondered. Since the first time he had met Spock, the doctor had been curious about the half-human part of the science officer. At first it was a challenge to trick Spock into revealing that hidden part of himself, but lately McCoy grew concerned that Spock was not only hiding his humanness, but smothering it. Why he should care, without a physician's detachment, about the Vulcan's personal matters nagged at him and made him grumpy. The fact that it _did_ bother him made him grumpier still. The result had been an increasing barrage of words between the chief medical officer and science officer whenever they were in each other's company for over two minutes. Actually, now that he thought about it, _that_ part was kind of fun. McCoy chuckled, drowsy now from a full stomach and having his feet propped up.

"Penny for your thoughts," intruded the captain's voice, a sleepy murmur.

McCoy squinted one eye open to observe an equally languid Kirk sprawled indecorously over an armchair. "You'll have a crick in your neck come morning if you don't sit in that thing properly." He closed his eye again and settled himself deeper into the cushions of the couch. "What thoughts?"

"You were scowling one minute and the next you were laughing to yourself. And rather smugly, too, I might add."

"The privilege of maturity, Jim," the doctor quipped, seeing the Vulcan approach to collect their bowls and spoons. "Sure you don't want some help, Spock?" The Vulcan shook his head 'no' and disappeared back into the kitchen. McCoy watched him for a moment before turning back to look at Kirk. "Just thoughts, Jim."

Kirk looked at the doctor for a long moment before he let the matter drop. It was evident Bones had been thinking about Spock. Kirk hadn't been able to think about anything else.

He felt responsible for Spock's delay in schedule. The one-in-a-thousand chance that landed them in Terra orbit for two days while a scientific shipment was being brought aboard had given him the opportunity to take Bones to this rented getaway. The plan was to spend the night, then leave the physician to take care of personal business before embarking on his upcoming five-year tour aboard the _Enterprise_. Kirk had wanted to see him settled in; after all, it was Kirk who had told Bones about this place – the quiet it would afford the doctor before he had to plunge into the reality of business, real estate, legal matters, and whatever else it took to tear up roots before heading out to deep space – so it was fortunate Kirk could take the time to come. Bones certainly didn't mind having the company.

But Spock was a different matter. Kirk, though used to the Vulcan's social mannerisms and emotionless façade, was still uneasy in some ways when in the man's presence. On the one hand, he had no desire, as did McCoy, to bring out Spock's humanness. In fact, he thought such an endeavor may wreck the delicate balance he sensed existed within the science officer, a balance that, due to its fragility, was covered over with layers of cool indifference. He knew that, given time, he might be allowed to see the balance for what it was. But that was only one side of the coin. The flip side was that he had to fight not to be constantly trying to _please_ the Vulcan, or earn his loyalty. That came along with the position Spock held in Starfleet. Vulcan loyalty to authority was an axiom. It was not loyalty Kirk wanted, however; it was friendship. He must remind himself that it might be long in coming, or never at all. Rushing it, trying to make it happen, might just destroy it before it began. He would have to be patient, and to remember to just be himself around Spock. He would ask no more of the Vulcan – why should he demand it of himself?

"Now I've got to ask what _you're_ thinking about. You look like you're trying to ignite that log just by looking at it."

Jim grinned at the doctor and straightened in his chair as he sniffed a pleasant aroma drifting from the kitchen. Spock came through the door bearing a tray with three steaming cups and set it upon the low table with the aplomb of an _haut-cuisine_ garcon before depositing himself upon an unused footstool.

"Please help yourselves, gentlemen. I believe I used the correct formula for this beverage." He sipped his own boiling-hot tea as the two humans buried their faces in the mugs of fragrant coffee.

McCoy smacked his lips in appreciation. "Not bad, Spock. First try?"

"Formula is formula, Dr. McCoy. A scientist may deduce that if a proven formula is followed, a predicted result will occur." Spock had folded his hands in his lap, reminding the doctor of a school child reciting a verse from memory for his teacher

"Ah, that's where you're wrong," said Kirk, hunching forward with his mug cradled between his two hands. "Making coffee is an art. It requires a delicate touch, a certain – _sense_, if it's to be done right. Otherwise it's weak and forgettable, or so strong you could stand your spoon up in it."

"Captain, the odds of accidentally brewing coffee with such density as to support the weight of a spoon are astronom. . ."

"It's a saying, Spock," grumbled the doctor. "He just means coffee that's too strong is awful. Weak coffee is awful."

"But if a formula is carefully followed. . ." began the Vulcan, his face as intent as if he were discussing the progenesis of a new vaccine. One eyebrow lifted as McCoy and Kirk burst out laughing.

"Never mind," said Kirk. "If you don't drink it, you'll never understand it. Just be glad you have the knack. It's good coffee." Kirk resisted the impulse to slap the Vulcan's arm and raised the mug to him instead. "And I'm ready for another cup. Let me this time," he offered, holding out his hand for Spock and McCoy's empty cups.

Spock nodded in agreement and Kirk as soon head puttering in the other room. McCoy sat idly watching the Vulcan before he found the science officer returning his gaze.

On impulse, Bones left the comfort of the couch and began rummaging in his kit, grunting in satisfaction as he located the package. He was fumbling with the wrapping on it as he sat back down. "Gift from Joanna. She's always sends me home-cooked things at Christmas."

_Yes_, pondered the Vulcan. The Yuletide season humans celebrated near the end of each year. There was the actual end-of-year – no – New Year celebration, where humans made inerrant asses of themselves while forming resolutions to never do so again, their ability to laugh at themselves while doing so their only salvation. Then there were a number of religious holidays dating back to ancient Earth history: the Jewish Hanukkah, the Christian Christmas, predated by even earlier mystic religions which celebrated the birth and death of life itself. With so much diversity, there was still a sense of the closing of one chapter and the opening of another. Amanda had told him stories of her childhood on Earth and the many traditions she had come to know and love. One of them had been baking: cookies, sweetbreads, candies, special sauces served over candied fruits. . .

He recalled the first time he had eaten a caramel she had prepared – her great-grandmother's recipe. He had actually felt sorry for her when she discovered that sugar brought about the same response it did in full-blooded Vulcans: it made him slightly tipsy. To honour her, from that time forth he would partake of his yearly caramel, delicately consuming it in front of his mother and then quietly taking himself to his room to 'sleep it off'.

Since he had left home, over fifteen years ago, he had not had a caramel. Or anything which contained sugar, for that matter. It suddenly seemed that Yuletide traditions were as far away as Vulcan.

"Does your mother send you anything, Spock?" asked McCoy, instantly wishing he hadn't. "Sorry. That's meddling."

"There is no need to apologize, Doctor. On Vulcan, the tradition of exchanging gifts is not unheard of, but it is a rare occurrence, not necessitated by a religious or traditional holiday. Amanda has simply conformed to the Vulcan way."

The answer was correct and polite, but McCoy couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't just a hint of nostalgia around Spock's eyes. He shook himself mentally; that was a damn fool notion. He would have to watch superimposing his own feelings onto the Vulcan. Why couldn't he just accept what the man said at face value; why must he always look for the 'hidden' meaning, when there just might not _be_ one? "Of course, Spock." His face brightened. "Well, you're on Earth, now. Care to join me in a Terran tradition just this once?"

Spock hesitated. Logic would have him decline, reaping the harvest of rationality tonight and clear eyes tomorrow. However, social etiquette would have him accept. After all, one delicacy could not contain so much sugar that he would be incapacitated; if it did, he would only take a small portion of it. Either way, propriety was served at no great personal risk. "If your daughter has laboured to produce a delicacy for you, Dr. McCoy, I would be honoured to share it." He felt a strange satisfaction in the smile which lit up McCoy's face, but he mastered the stranger quirk at the right corner of his own mouth, assuming a mask of composure for the physician.

The doctor made a great show of taking off the lid of the box and pulling aside some tissue paper which covered he sweets inside. He reached for a morsel, stopped himself, and offered the box to Spock. "You first, take your pick."

Spock peered over the edge of the box as he took it into his lap. It was heavier than it looked, and he could see why. It was filled to the brim with chocolate chip cookies, pralines, dark fudge candy, a bar cookie which smelled of lemon, small round cakes dipped in powdered sugar, rich finger fruitcakes redolent of brandy, and – caramels. Shapeless, soft, buttery, sugary caramels. _Homemade_ caramels, wrapped in their own wax papers to keep them from melting into the other edibles.

Spock felt himself swallow. _Illogical_. It was merely a non-nourishing food, high in animal fats and sucrose, but something in him reacted to it as a starving man would a platter of food. Resolutely, he withdrew his hand and gave the box back to McCoy. "Thank you, Doctor, but I think not. The nutribar has more than satisfied my dietary needs for the evening, and it would be illogical to add a carbohydrate at this late hour."

McCoy's face fell before the Vulcan saw him rally in time to fuss at Kirk for spilling his coffee. Kirk frowned but said nothing as he concentrated on maneuvering the tray onto the table without spilling any more.

"I overfilled the cups, Bones." Jim grabbed up his own cup and eyed the box now safely back in the doctor's possession. "Did I hear you offer some of that to Spock? Am I included?"

"Hmph!" snorted the physician. "Spock declined, citing Vulcan dietary habits as his excuse. Probably isn't austere enough for him," he quipped, not sorry this time for the barb. He leaned forward, offering the box to Kirk, oblivious to the thoughtful look which flashed briefly over the Vulcan's face before disappearing behind the calm repose. "I guess you'll want the pralines," he groaned.

Kirk's eyes widened in greed. "Are you kidding? Look at this – chocolate chip cookies!" He picked up three, one at a time, before looking up at Bones, who stared at him in unbelief. "How many can I have?"

"You do this often, Jim? Keep this up and I'll have to put you on a diet."

"It runs in the family, Bones. I expect it won't be the last diet you put me on. But never mind that, now. It's Christmas! Or at least it was last week, and we were too busy to celebrate the day." Kirk put on his 'I'm the captain' look, still holding the three cookies. "How many can I have?" he repeated.

"As many as you want, but don't come to me asking for something when your stomach revolts in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry," said Kirk, his mouth full. "I was raised on this stuff."

Spock could not quite understand the feelings he was experiencing at the moment. The very fact he was _feeling_ them was disconcerting, but he found himself wanting to analyze them rather than tuck them away in that dark place he called illogic. Kirk and McCoy were two intelligent and highly-trained individuals, experts in their respective fields, and outstanding in their accomplishments. That was why they had been assigned to the _Enterprise_, and why, with him, they would soon undertake a five-year mission such as Starfleet had never before attempted.

Yet here they were, squabbling like two children over food items which could very well make them sick. Foods which, if taken in large enough quantities, could be construed as poisonous – _given as a gift from a loved one_. How very, very odd – how very _human_. Was it really the food they were enjoying, or something it represented? Perhaps that was it.

Many years ago, when he was ignorantly inexperienced and open to new things, long before he realized they were un-Vulcan and to be shunned, he partook of some of the human revelings, standing on the sidelines and observing more than anything, but still _partaking_. The humans seemed to enjoy whatever it was they were doing – playing games, watching holovids, joining athletic events – for the sake of doing it together, of having a joint interest or goal. Funny how he thought he did not need that aspect of ship life as he began to shed all emotion, how he construed the gut reactions of the humans as misunderstanding of his intent. Now he found himself wondering if it was because they thought he was denouncing the importance of camaraderie, of the joint effort. Or _them_.

How would Kirk and McCoy feel at this moment if he were to inform them of their illogical behaviour, both in the silly talk and the consumption of poisonous substances? Somehow, he knew. He also knew that to partake of the food would bring them a happiness past his comprehension. It was illogical, but it was a fact. It was human. And the fact that he found himself wanting to give them this pleasure was human, too.

He sighed, audibly, and McCoy and Kirk looked at him. He would debate the illogic of it later, when he was alone. For now, he was _not_ alone, and he wanted to do this illogical thing. "I will have a car. . . I will have one of those interesting candies wrapped in the paper, if you please," he intoned, and received the offered caramel with a bow of his head. McCoy grinned and winked at the captain, who answered with a wide, lopsided grin of his own.

A pleasant, warm sensation poured over Spock as he chewed the candy, the sucrose entering his bloodstream a hundred times faster than the human body absorbed alcohol, but it was not the physical sensations which occupied his mind. He was having a flashback, standing in the kitchen of his Vulcan home, looking up at this proud mother, eating his very first caramel. The sucrose did its work as she, unknowing of its effects, smiled on her only son. Freed from all constraint by the mildly intoxicating effect of the carbohydrate, he cocked his dark head to one side and, still chewing, smiled back.

Spock cleared his throat as the memory threatened to pull at the corners of his mouth. "Joanna must be commended, Dr. McCoy. It is. . . unusual, but quite good."

Kirk and McCoy looked at him strangely for a long moment, then practically fell over themselves making excuses to go to bed. The Vulcan couldn't really understand why they felt such a need of haste, since he had maintained his outward appearance of decorum. He had sat for a while, appreciating the quiet which surrounded him, when impulsively he reached for another caramel. It was unprecedented, but as the first one had had no unpleasant effect, there was no reason to suspect this one would, either. He leaned back in the chair, savouring the buttery flavour of this small piece of candy as it melted slowly in his mouth.

Finally, the candy gone, he could see no reason to maintain a vigil over the dying fire. He looked down at the wax wrapper in his hand. There were eight caramels left, and the doctor may have counted them. Perhaps if he were to dispose of the wrapper. . .

All was quiet in the cabin. Spock could hear the heavy breathing of the two humans as he prepared to clean his teeth before retiring. It was then he learned the reason for the two men's hasty retreat earlier that evening. His front incisor was neatly capped with a glistening glob of sticky caramel goo.

ooOOoo

McCoy moved around the room, checking for last-minute things he might have overlooked. The shuttle would be by for him in thirty minutes and he wanted to be ready.

The rest had been wonderful – a week and half of utter quiet and peace had restored him and braced him for the work he must accomplish over the next six months. Joanna would help him decide what to sell along with the antebellum home that had been in their family for over twelve generations, and what to keep to hand down to her ancestors for generations to come.

He stopped for a moment, looking out a nearby window at the snow outside, his attention drawn to some little grey birds perched in a leafless bush, their miniscule weight barely disturbing the branches. Despite the cold, they flocked together, sharing the meager findings of winter, surviving until spring came.

He wondered about Spock, whose parents lived but whom he never mentioned. Spock, who had known only one captain before Kirk, who had to have been torn between such opposite – almost antagonistic – worlds as those of his father and mother. Spock, who strove so hard to achieve an emotionless logic that, truth be known, not even his father had attained, or even tried to. Spock, who guarded the emotions he denied so carefully, so ardently, that even relative strangers such as himself could see it. Spock. . .

Spock, no doubt affected by the additional sugar of a second piece of caramel – taken when no one was looking – who had left the wrapper under the cushion of the couch. A very human act.

McCoy 'humphed' irascibly. He'd been alone too long, apparently, if he was going to start feeling sorry for that green-blooded, ice-for-a-heart. . .

No, he realized. He really didn't feel that way about the man. Frustrated, yes. Curious, yes. But not uncaring.

He grinned suddenly, placing the wax wrapper in his pocket. Very well. He would treat Spock the way he treated anyone he cared about – or wanted to. They didn't call him irascible for nothing, and Spock would discover – as all of McCoy's friends had – just what that meant.

"Poor Spock," he muttered aloud. "Now I _do_ feel sorry for you!"

End


End file.
